


But Now I See

by Prentice



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Drinking, First Meetings, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Mos Pelgo (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29503878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prentice/pseuds/Prentice
Summary: Cobb Vanth saw color for the first time sometime in the middle of getting piss drunk off a half-bottle of bootleg Spotchka.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Cobb Vanth
Kudos: 19
Collections: Star Wars Soulmate Month 2021





	But Now I See

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: colorblind until you see your soulmate. 
> 
> I've used some creative license with the colorblind aspect (less trouble recognizing color and more shades of gray). Hopefully no one minds!
> 
> Also, apologies in advance for any choppiness. I was diagnosed with Covid in the middle of writing this and am still recovering but didn't want to disappoint by not posting anything. 
> 
> Additionally, I've been without power for 2 days due to an ongoing winter storm and can only post this via limited data so any hiccups will be fixed as soon as the power returns.
> 
> Stay safe all! ❤

Cobb Vanth saw color for the first time sometime in the middle of getting piss drunk off a half-bottle of bootleg Spotchka. He almost didn’t notice it at first; the cantina growing warm and hazy around him as he settled deeper into his seat, legs spread wide to keep the room from spinning away from him. He didn’t mind; it’d been a long few months in Mos Pelgo and the familiar burn of the alcohol and the loose-limbed relaxation that came with it was more than appreciated.

  
Especially now, with that kark forsook krayt dragon dealt with and the Tuskens being damn near neighborly with the town and its people. In fact…

  
Bottle lifting in a quick and sloppy salute, Cobb gave a pleasant nod to a pair of Tusks that were standing nearby, a satchel of trade goods at their side. The harsh clicks and squeals of their language familiar to his ear now that they were trading between them regularly. The early days of an uneasy truce fading now that both sides had realized the benefits of such a lucrative and unlikely proposition. 

  
Humming softly, Cobb took another swig from his bottle, eyes half-lidded as he watched his people drink and talk and laugh at the end of another long week. A long few weeks, really. The rebuilding of several of the town’s long destroyed outposts a bright spot as more people caught wind of the fact that Mos Pelgo was once more on the rise. 

  
The lure of a new and growing prospect enough to draw a few curious looky-loos from places as close as Mos Eisley and as far away as Mos Espa. A handful of which had stayed on, happy to start fresh and have a hand in rebuilding what was now going to be their home. The occasional spurt of raiders run off with the help of the fledgling patrol he’d managed to piece together after losing the armor.

  
A still lingering disappointment, that. 

  
Even without all the firepower that armor had packed, its intimidation factor had gone a long way to making his life as Marshal a whole hell of a lot easier. After all, even despite their scant numbers, Mandalorians were known throughout the galaxy for their fierce reputation as deadly and highly skilled warriors. A reputation that, as far as the people of Mos Pelgo were concerned, was more than well deserved. 

  
Which was why, regret aside, he couldn’t feel too put out by having to give the armor back to the Mandalorian. A deal was a deal, and Cobb had always been a man of his word. He just hoped the Mando he’d met had found the owner of that armor and returned it, or at least put it to good use now that he had it.  
Seemed a kriffing shame for it to go to waste. 

  
Humming again, Cobb took another long pull from his bottle. The sharp burn of what might as well have been engine fuel sliding down his throat, warming him pleasantly as he watched a small gaggle of the town’s young folk stroll by him. Heads bent together over who knows what, giggling collectively when he gave them a slow smile and a playful wink.

  
Silly things. 

  
He’d watched more than half of them grow up. The handful he hadn’t were new arrivals that had taken a shine to trying to catch the Marshal’s eye. Not that he was interested. 

  
They were all too young. Too young and too soft. Well, soft as one could get out here in the dunes and the wastes, where even the simplest of mistakes could lead to a life of slavery and oppression. 

  
He should know: he still had the mangled knot of scars on his hip from where he’d had to dig out his transmitter chip. The chilly winds off the dunes at night an aching reminder that only grew worse as the years pressed on. The colorless gray-scale of his vision all the bleaker for the way he sometimes woke, hip aching and heart-pounding, cold sweat slick on his skin as he reached for someone that wasn’t there. That might never be there.  
His life on this backwater little dust ball secluding him from the rest of the galaxy in a way that both did and didn’t put him in the path of all manner of beings that might’ve been the one to bring color to his world.

  
Not that he was going to think about that. Not here and not now, with his people happy and safe around him, and the hope for a better future clear on the horizon. A horizon that was even now swaying and tilting, the gradually fading light from the setting suns a wobbling bright spot beyond it.

  
Eyes closing, Cobb fought back a grimace. Kark, but he hated when he got to thinkin’ on things better left alone when he drank. It was never pretty. 

  
Never happy, either. 

  
The horrible pull of unhappy times and unfulfilled promises making his eyes burn and his hip ache; the shadows of the past creeping into his present with cold gray fingers that made him equal parts ornery and overly emotional. Not a pleasant combination by anyone’s estimation and one that he tried his best to avoid at all costs. Not that he could entirely help it. 

  
This rotgut he was swilling might well have started its life as some ship’s paint thinner for all he knew, the fumes from the bottle burning his nostrils the way the genuine stuff rarely did whenever he was lucky enough to get his hands on it. It wasn’t like he was going to turn his nose up at it, though. Mos Pelgo, while full of good people well worth fighting for, was a long way from being a bustling port town like Mos Eisley, and trade out here near the wastes was slow. 

  
Especially with a moof-milker like Bib Fortuna still sitting on the throne, playing at being a Hutt while the rest of the planet continued to suffer for his incompetence. An incompetence that, for all the half-cocked and convoluted assassination attempts, seemed to be around to stay. At least until someone brazen enough to just shoot the sleemo where he sat came along, and then who the hell knew what would happen–to them or the rest of the planet.

  
Sighing, Cobb scrubbed a hand tiredly over his stubbled face, dirty fingernails digging into the itch of days’ old stubble as he stifled a yawn behind his fingers. Kriff, but he was lucky that tonight wasn’t his night for patrols. He hated to think what the townsfolk would say if they saw their Marshal stumbling around like a bow-legged Eopie; stinking of liquor and day-old sweat and crankier than a rancor with a sore tooth.

  
Not a pretty mental image if he said so himself, and one that he hoped to avoid by turning in soon. A large glass of water and a couple of hours of sleep to burn off the worst of the alcohol’s effects, and he’d be right as dust on a dune. Ready to face a new day and a new challenge as —

  
“Marshal!”

  
Eyes snapping open at the shout, Cobb jerked, body tensing as he put a hasty hand onto the hilt of his blaster. Kriffing hell, he hoped it wasn’t those damn Red Key boys again. He hated the karking lot of them and was damn tired of having to run them off. Particularly on his night off.

  
“Marshal!” 

  
Gaze snapping towards the entrance, Cobb stood unsteadily as he watched Jo weave a hasty path through the cantina, face alight with something that could only mean trouble. For him, anyway. Damn syndicate kung would have to pick the one night he’d decided to drink. 

  
“Marshal,” Jo said again as soon as she was in front of him, face tipped up to meet his gaze. “Sorry to bother you on your night off, but Silas just sent word from the new outpost. Said they spotted a couple of speeder-bikes riding hell-for-leather out this way a few dunes over.” 

  
“Red Key?” He asked grimly, alcohol still flickering in his veins. Dank farrik, but he should’ve kept dry tonight. Even with the Tuskens’ occasional help and the patrols he’d set up, he knew better than to leave his people vulnerable. 

  
Blinking, Jo shook her head. “No, Marshal. Silas said he checked for the usual signs but didn’t see any.” 

  
“Ain’t always going to see ’em,” Cobb reminded her, frowning. “I told you lot that when we started these patrols. Those peedunky bastards like to—”

  
“He said one of the rider’s looks like they’re wearing Mandalorian armor,” Jo interrupted, sun-worn skin flushing a little at her eagerness. “Sorry, Marshal, but we thought you ought to know. Especially considering what happened a few months ago with the dragon.”

  
Mouth closing, Cobb blinked himself, thoughts derailed at the news. “Mandalorian armor?” 

  
Nodding, Jo bounced slightly on her feet. “He didn’t get a good look at it—said they were going too fast for him to—but after the last time, the shape of it was pretty unmistakable. Even with the fading light.” 

  
“Did he get a look at the other rider?” Cobb asked by rote, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders because, kriff, what were the chances of meeting two Mandalorians in such a brief space of time? Pretty slim, he’d have thought, especially in this part of the galaxy.

  
Though what the Mando was doing back here, he couldn’t rightly fathom. After all, the man had seemed pretty damn hellbent on finding more of his own kind. Come hell or krayt dragons. 

  
Shrugging, Jo shook her head. “Just said they were obviously together and riding full out. Should be here soon if they keep the same pace.” 

  
Nodding, Cobb reached out to give the girl a friendly pat on the shoulder. “All right, then. Reckon I better go out and greet them. Why don’t you see if Mara has a few rooms ready just in case this Mando and their friend decide to stay a spell?”

  
“Will do, Marshal!” Jo agreed eagerly, turning to weave her way back the way she came. 

  
Cobb sighed, a hand lifting to scrub once more at his face. Kark all mighty, but that girl had more energy than a loth-cat on the hunt. No wonder her daddy had insisted she be part of the patrol despite having a fully functioning moisture farm to tend to each day; man probably wanted her to burn off a little of that energy before she headed home with it each night. 

  
Head shaking, Cobb eased himself away from the table, curse caught behind his teeth at the way the floor seemed to wobble beneath his feet. Damn bootleg liquor. Might’ve tasted like poodoo, but kark if it didn’t pack a hell of a punch. 

  
One that he was regretting with every stiff-legged step towards the cantina’s entrance. The walk between table and doorway never having seemed so long – or so perilous. His feet clumsy on the packed sand as he passed between tables and townsfolk alike, warm greetings thrown his way from all sides.

  
Spine straightening in an effort to keep himself steady, Cobb stepped out the cantina’s doorway, grimacing at the way the ground seemed to tilt slightly beneath him. The fizz of alcohol in his system a pressing reminder to exercise a little more caution the next time he sampled a Weequay’s attempt at making home-brewed liquor. Or home-brewed anything, for that matter. 

  
Head turning, Cobb squinted into the distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the approaching riders only to blink, eyebrows rising as he watched them already easing their way into town. Bikes nearly silent as they glided passed flickering solar lamps and curious townsfolk. The telltale shape of a Mandalorian easy to pick out from the shadows stretching between buildings as they came to a stop not far from him.

  
This close, and it was obvious that this wasn’t the Mandalorian he’d been halfway expecting. Not only was the shape of the helmet and pauldrons all wrong, but this armor didn’t shine like the previous one’s had. If anything, it seemed to suck in the light; the matte finish keeping the fading sunlight and solar lamps from reflecting off its surface.

  
Not to mention the fact that this armor seemed to be a close match to the one Cobb had once had. Though it couldn’t be the same one, he was sure. Not with how battered that one had been: the breastplate’s integrity almost entirely compromised, jetpack casing keeping the bulk of it together, and the protective coating chipped away until just the primer-coated beskar showed in most places.

  
This one seemed—new. New and dangerous. Just like all Mandalorians were.

  
Hands sliding loosely down by his sides, Cobb pasted on an easy, welcoming smile, the burn of booze in his system likely making it seem a touch toothier than intended as his gaze bounced from the strangely familiar armor to the other rider. As if on cue, the rider pulled off her helmet, long braided hair swinging over her shoulder as she and the Mandalorian swung themselves off their bikes. 

  
“You the Marshal?” She asked, voice sharp and inquisitive as she traded her helmet for a sniper rifle she swung menacingly, worryingly, over one shoulder.

  
Smile tightening, Cobb casually widened his stance, wishing again that he hadn’t touched a drop of that damn Weequay’s stash.

  
“That I am,” he answered, eyes bouncing between her and the silent Mando. “Cobb Vanth, Marshal of this fine town. What can I do you for, stranger?”

  
Lips pursing, the woman shared a silent look with the Mandalorian beside her, the man’s bulk making her seem strangely small and delicate beside him. Cobb wasn’t fooled. He’d seen more than one ‘small and delicate’ creature wreak havoc in his time out here in the wastes.

  
“Get me drink, for a start,” she replied, tone strangely sardonic as she moved towards him, rifle swaying behind her. 

  
“Be happy to, ma’am,” Cobb said, fingers twitching at his sides as she joined him on the boardwalk. Head tipping towards the quiet Mandalorian, he asked: “And your friend?” 

  
Snorting, the rider glanced once more at the Mando, a single perfect brow arching pointedly.

  
“That he can tell you himself,” she said as she brushed passed him, shoulder bumping his as she stepped into the cantina. 

  
Brows lifting, Cobb glanced after her, strangely disarmed as he watched her move determinedly towards the bar and the Weequay behind it before turning his curious gaze to the still silent Mandalorian. He hadn’t moved, helmet tipped slightly to the side as he seemed to study Cobb from a distance. The man’s gaze heavy on his skin as he waited. 

  
And waited.

  
The silence stretching between them like the shadows from the fading sunlight until finally, whether because of the alcohol in his system or the frustration of standing here in silence, Cobb spoke: “Met a Mandalorian recently. He wasn’t exactly the talkative type either.”

  
“I know,” the Mando said after a beat, voice rumbling from beneath his helmet.

  
“Do you?” Cobb asked, surprised. “I take it you’ve met?”

  
Head tipping in acknowledgement, the Mando moved a few steps forward, spurs jangling. “We have. I owed the beroya a great debt, one that has now been fulfilled and freed myself and my companion to once more return to this planet.” 

  
Brows rising once more, Cobb nodded slowly. “All right, then. Can’t say I understand why you’d choose to return here of all places but you’re welcome to—”

  
“Unfinished business,” the Mando cut in, hands lifting to the sides of his helmet. Slowly, he lifted it off, scarred features coming into view as he continued: “Something I think you’ll understand soon.” 

  
Frowning, Cobb blinked, mouth opening to reply, only to pause and blink again.

  
And again.

  
Eyes straining from the sudden and inexplicable feeling of something being off—being, not wrong, exactly—but different. Strange. Almost like… like…

  
“Oh hell,” Cobb breathed, ground swaying beneath his feet as what was—what could only be—color burst into his world. A kaleidoscope of new and vibrant tones he didn’t have a name for abruptly appearing all around him, faster than he could keep up with. “Oh kriffing hell.” 

  
Huffing a rusty laugh, the Mando in front of him smirked; eyes the color of—of—Cobb didn’t know, but he was sure in the hell going to find out—crinkling at the corners.

  
“I couldn’t have said it better, vod,” he said, helmet tucked against his side as he watched Cobb stare wide-eyed and wondering at the world around him. “Now, how about that drink?” 

  
Blinking, Cobb did the only thing he could: he bought them both a damn drink, bootleg liquor be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any lingering tense or grammar issues. 
> 
> Translations:  
> Kriffing/Karking: An expletive  
> Moof-milker: An dimwitted person.  
> Kung: Huttese for "scum".  
> Dank farrik: An exclamatory expression, possibly an expletive (definitely one here).  
> Peedunky: This Huttese insult was roughly equivalent to "punk."  
> Vod: Mando'a for 'brother'


End file.
